


and my hands are cold

by rayguntomyhead



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Pre-War, Somnophilia, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: “Can we… can we bunk together tonight?” Impactor says, gruff.  “Yes,” Megatron says, before he can overthink it. Impactor’s not that fresh-off-the-line newbuild anymore but Megatron wants it too, the steady, rumble and clatter of Impactor against him,alive.
Relationships: Impactor/Megatron (Transformers)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	and my hands are cold

**Author's Note:**

> unedited. read the warnings.

Megatron waits. Impactor’s still new, it takes him longer to finish his turnover at the end of shift than Megatron’s ever does. It’s almost pretty here though, watching the soft, eerie glow ofjagged blue crystal points peeking through the seams in the mine's coal-black, pitted walls. Useless as fuel, which is why they’re still there, but pretty. 

He shifts on his boulder seat, feels the comforting slick slide of condensation on his plating. Outside it’s hot, dry, light of the star above them beating down mercilessly. Here it’s quiet. Peaceful. Maybe someday he’ll be able to write about it, like in the datapads he sneaks into his quarters. Find better words to describe it than _pretty_. 

“Hey,” Impactor clanks out of the cove. He can move quieter when he wants to, perks of the mods they all get for the more sonically sensitive areas of the mines, but his former mentee seems to almost enjoy the looks he gets when he lets all the bulk and clatter of his armor, the puttering growl of his engine, announce his arrival.

“Imactor,” Megatron says, spark warming with something soft and fond. He revs his engine gently in greeting as he stands. 

“Ready to blow this joint?” Impactor says. He slings an arm over Megatron’s shoulder, pulling him in until their plating clatters, clammy and hot. They got lucky with their quarters – only a half-breem walk and right now they’ve got the whole four-mech berthing to themselves. Their own little haven, just Megatron and Impactor. 

The walk back is easy, companionable. The paths down here wind, making a quarter-breem distance longer as it curves floor pockmarked with deep pits. 

“Don’t see why we can’t just go across,” Impactor grumbles, eying the narrow bridge that arches over it all slapped together by some impatient fool-hardy miner

“Because we don’t have a death-wish,” Megatron says. He hugs tight to the wall of the cave, studiously following the main walkway. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Impactor says. “’S not _that_ dangerous. What’s life without a little danger, huh?” 

“One you’re still alive to enjoy,” Megatron says drily. Impactor mutters something that’s definitely uncomplimentary under his breath but follows him. Pah. Newbuilds. Was Megatron like that those decacyles ago?

A single bulb lights the entrance over their quarters. Megatron shoulders open the slab of wood that serves as a door, gestures Impactor ahead. It’s cozy inside, dark. Megatron switches his optic filter until he can see more than just the vague outlines of the furnishings. He’s already picked up their rations, and he fishes one out of his subspace and hands the other to Impactor. He takes a long swallow, gritty aftertaste coating his glossa. It tastes like dirt and additives, but it’s fuel. 

Impactor clinks his cube against Megatron’s, downs two-thirds of it in one go and ambles over to settle on the berth. Megatron follows, not quite ready to settle in for recharge alone. 

“Been spending more time with your cohort, I noticed,” he says. 

“Yup,” Impactor says. “They’re giving me an _education._ ”

He claps a hand on Megatron’s thigh, smirks at him. 

“Oh?” Megatron says. He drains the last of his ration, flips the cube in the direction of the corner bin. “

Impactor waggles his optic ridges. He looks ridiculous. 

“Y’know,” he says. “Things.” 

His optics are expectant, his hand rubbing harder at Megatron’s thigh. Megatron eyes him in bemusement. 

“Care to elaborate?” he says, plucks the empty cube from Impactor’s grip before he can drop it on the floor and tosses that one in the bin to join the others. Honestly, this place would look like scraplet nest if Impactor didn’t have Megatron there. 

Impactor stares at Megatron harder, giving him a look that _he_ clearly thinks is meaningful. Megatron cocks his head patiently, but after a second Impactor exvents heavily and pulls back. 

“’S nothing,” he says, flops onto the berth. 

If Impactor isn’t ready to share Megatron won’t push. 

“Recharge well,” Megatron says, bumps the blocky tangle of Impactor’s legs with a hip and stands. 

“‘Charge well,” Impactor mumbles back, and offlines his optics. 

Megatron waits. Impactor’s quicker this time, clanking out after barely a klik. Seems he’s getting the hang of it now, growing more every day and Megatron’s chest warms with the thought of it. Soon he won’t even need Megatron to walk him around, but maybe they’ll still walk together anyway. His own mentor, Terminus, is long gone away and it’s good, not being alone.

“Heya,” Impactor says. “You don’t have to wait for me anymore, y’know. I got this slag.”

Megatron grins, nudges him with an elbow. 

“I know you do,” he says. “Maybe I just enjoy the pleasure of your illustrious company.” 

Impactor puff out his chest at that. 

“Yup,” he says. “Lustrious company, that’s me.”

They walk the path back side by side, the soft flare of sodium lamps lighting the way. Megatron follows the curve of the wall,turns sideways to make room for Impactor but suddenly Impactor isn’t there. Megatron turns fully, and of course. Impactor’s edging across the bridge over the pits, blithely ignoring the clattering slip of the rocks beneath him.

“C’mon,” he says. “Don’t be a glitch. This is fun!” 

“It’s going to be less fun when you fall and crack your head open,” Megatron says. Impactor blatts out a rude noise, making a show of setting each pede down with exaggerated carefulness. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, spins a circle on one pede, balances on a leg and raise his optic ridges high. “Worrymech.”

Megatron rolls his optics at the antics and grins. Impactor grins back, and slips. 

Megatron freezes. No. No, no, no–

Time stretches, long and horrible as Impactor falls into the dark, optics spiraling wide and arms scrabbling uselessly. Megatron can’t move. The dull sickening thump of metal hitting stone echoes in the silence, rings in his audials, and the world snaps back into painful focus. 

“Impactor!” Megatron throws himself on the edge, peering wildly through the dark. The sound of impactor’s head hitting rock, the nauseating thunk of it, echoes over and over in his head. 

Impactor can’t be dead. He isn’t. Megatron throws himself over the edge, heaving himself over and around the jagged rocks on the floor of the pit. His headlights flicker on as he swings them desperately from side to side, searching for Impactor.

A groan echoes to his left, and Megatron scrambles faster. Impactor’s sitting, thank Primus, clutching the side of his helm, optics dim. 

“Hey, hey,” Megatron says, dropping to his knees. “Optics on me. Do you know where you are?”

Impactor scowls. “At the bottom of a Primus-damned pit. Slag, that hurt.”

His field flares bravado, but his optics are spiraled huge, still and quiet in a way he never is. Too close. He won’t say it, but they both know. A rock in a different place, the wrong twist of his frame as it fell. His first near miss with the Unmaker over a stupid stunt. Pure, damn luck.

Megatron methodically checks him over. Both optics stay the same luminance, only a trickle of energon oozes from the wound, motor controls look intact. He exvents shaky, slumps. His spark's spinning like it wants to whirl right out of his chest.

“Don’t–“ he says, grasping Impactor’s upper arms. “You _idiot_.”

Impactor grumbles, starts to heave himself to his pedes. 

“Give it a klik, _frag_ ,” Megatron says. 

“I’m _fine,”_ Impactor says. “Let a mech lick his wounds in peace, why don’t you.” 

Megatron chokes out a laugh, giving Impactor’s arm a last squeeze feeling the warmth and flex of his plating before letting him go. Suppose he’s fine enough if he’s got enough energy to complain. 

“Fine,” he says, little shivers still skittering over his frame. “Fine. Let’s go home.”

They make it back with only a few stumbles. Impactor’s not _fine_ , but the apathetic medics won’t thank them for being called in past the end of the day cycle and there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong enough that a good rest won’t fix. Impactor doesn’t want his energon, but Megatron coaxes it into him, gives him the extra blanket for his head. 

So close. It's one of the first things miners learn, that they all live a split-second away from death, but this… Megatron can’t lose him too. Impactor settled, he turns to go sleep away the shrilling panic still buzzing in his head but Impactor stops him.

“Can we… can we bunk together tonight?” Impactor says, gruff. His arms are folded but his field tugs at Megatron’s own. Asking like he’s still that wild-eyed, clumsily over-large newbuild barely able to process his own input that had been shoved at Megatron with a terse command of _mentor him._

“Yes,” Megatron says, before he can overthink it. Impactor’s not that fresh-off-the-line newbie anymore but Megatron wants it too, the steady, rumble and clatter of Impactor against him, _alive_.

The bed barely fits them both. Megatron curls against the wall, Impactor sprawled half over him. His frame pumps out heat, a pocket of warmth around them but Megatron’s still cold. He can’t get warm, and he can’t sleep and he shifts to his side, his back, his front. 

It plays over and over in his head, the dizzying hiccup of his fuel pump, the dull thud of Impactor’s head hitting rock. The sound of it, over and over, and Megatron can’t sleep, his processor’s glitching with the need to defrag and he can’t turn it _off._

He shifts again, half on his side but mostly on his front and Impactor’s engine grumbles with the disturbance. A heavy arm slings over his side and then Impactor pulls him in, chassis pressed tight enough his engine vibrates through them both. 

It’s strange. They bunked together for decacycles, but Impactor’s never clutched at him like this and Megatron shifts, uncertain. Impactor hums, and he squirms. Slow at first, then harder, grinding his hips against Megatron. 

What is he _doing?_ His field doesn’t teek awake though, not really, and he needs the rest so Megatron’s hands squeeze, relax, and he doesn’t pull away. 

Impactor’s grinding harder now, almost deliberate. A _click-whirr_ of a micro-transformation echoes under the purr of his engine, and it’s his– it’s his spike now grinding against Megatron’s back. 

He needs to wake Impactor up. Ask him what he’s doing. Megatron moves a hand, rests it hesitantly on the arm locked tight around his waist. 

Impactor’s engine growls, and his hand moves lower, at Megatrons abdomen, his pelvic armor, gropes between Megatron’s legs. Megatron’s joints lock. Words queue and die in his vocalizer. His plating heats, flaring suddenly oversensitive as Impactor rubs harder until the space between Megatron’s legs throbs. 

A hot, tight, ache knots slowly in his core and a routine in Megatron’s subprocessing activates without his permission. Another whirr-click of transformation echoes, and his plating transforms away and it’s so dark, Megatron can’t see it but he can feel. Impactor’s digits grope lower and lower, into the soft wet blooming like a wound between Megatron’s legs but the hurt is good, every clumsy touch spitting white-hot shocks through his sensory net. 

How is Impactor still in recharge? Megatron pulls his field in tight, doesn’t reach it out to check. Isn’t sure he wants to know. He lays there, pliant, quiescent, lets Impactor smear his digits over Megatron’s valve. 

The spike against his back rubs wetly now, pre-fluid slick and viscous against the overlapping plating at the small of Megatron’s back. Impactor slowly drags his hand up, and Megatron’s engine whines weakly, relieved? Wanting? But his hand only moves enough to grasp at Megatron’s thigh instead, pulling it up and open.

Impactor’s spike ruts lower now, slips between Megatron’s legs, slick and hard and frantic. Megatron’s frame flashes hot, cold, and he’s shivering, why is he shivering. He tries to cut the motor response, but he can’t, he can’t settle it. His plating rattles and Impactor’s engine revs. Hs hands on Megatron’s body jerk him down and Impactor’s spike pushes _up,_ pushes _into_ _Megatron_ , and it aches and it’s _good,_ like some open needing thing inside him is finally being filled. 

It didn’t feel like this before, when his own mentor did this. It’d felt like mostly nothing, and when Megatron pulled away Terminus had let him, had never tried again. He’d never done this to Impactor, and Impactor had never asked, how did he he _know_ this.

Impactor’s spike fucks in, and in, the thick heavy length of it pushing deeper and deeper, carving him open. Megatron can’t breathe, he’s so _full,_ he wants this, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t _know._

Impactor exvents, holds him there. His arm bands them tight together, enough to hurt and then he moves. Slides out, leaves Megatron raw and empty and fills him up again in horrible perfection. Out, and in, fucking him faster, harder with every roll of his hips. 

Impactor pushes, shifts him further on his front, spike hilting deeper. It shifts inside him, ruts relentlessly against something, achingly sensitive, and Megatron’s valve contracts around the brutal length of it. He needs– he needs– 

Impactor groans, hips stuttering into spastic little bursts. His arm flexes, pulls Megatron in tight enough to bruise and holds him there, spike throbbing. Warmth blooms deep inside him and Megatron’s optics shutter, mouth falling open with a shuddering exvent. His mind is blank, empty, the weight of Impactor smothering. Slowly Impactor’s arms relax and he sighs, slumps back and off of Megatron. 

The _tick_ of cooling metal is loud in the silence of the room. Something seeps down Megatron’s thigh, slick and viscid. He triggers his panel closed, rolls onto his front. Charge still knots deep in his core, throbs painful and wanting between his legs, but his hands fist by his sides and he doesn’t move. 

Beside him Impactor slips deeper into recharge, vents starting up a soothing rattle. Megatron lets the white noise of it fill his head until there’s nothing else, forces his own vents into steady rhythm, and waits for sleep. 

Megatron onlines slowly. He aches still, inside. impactor’s already up, sipping at a cube of energon and when he sees Megatron’s optics light up he offers it over without a word. 

“Saved the rest for you,” he says. “Almost time t’go, daylight’s burning.” 

They walk in silence through the halls to the mine. It’s peaceful, normal, and Megatron doesn’t ask. 

Megatron waits. Impactor’s done but he’s razzing with some of the other younger miners, trading playful jabs and slugs on the shoulder. With a parting sloppy salute he swaggers over to Megatron, reaches for his hand and pulls him to his pedes.

“Ready to blow this joint?” Impactor says. He slings an arm around Megatron’s shoulders, gives him a squeeze. Megatron nods.

“Good day?” he says. 

“Pits yeah,” Impactor says. “Gotta day of light duty, barely had to lift a finger. And–“ he pats his subspace, “–one of the mechs gave me a little high-grade present for surviving my first close-one. Enough to share.” 

He elbows Megatron’s side, smirks. Whatever rotgut he’s carrying is bound to be foul. The slag brewed in the mine’s hidden stills always is. 

“All yours,” Megatron says, and squeezes Impactor’s shoulder.

Impactor lowers himself heavily onto the bunk, taking a slug of the rotgut and staring at Megatron with a strange light shining in his optics. 

“’S good,” he says. “Sure you don’t want some?”

Megatron shakes his head. 

“You deserve it,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Impactor grunts, downs another mouthful.

“Yeah,” he says, “’m still sore. Feels like slag.” 

He slumps back on his arms, still eying Megatron with that look in his optics.He toys with the bottle idly, and Megatron hums in agreement, shuffling through his datapads without really seeing them. The thud of helm on rock echoes in his head.

“So,” Impactor says. “Wanna help me feel better?” 

Megatron hesitates, slowly turns. He sits himself next to Impactor and nods, searching Impactor’s face. Impactor’s field gropes at him, wanting. 

The _whirr-click_ echoes in the silence of the room as the plating between Impactor’s legs transforms. Megatron’s vents catch. _Oh_. The world hazes, everything fading except for the sharp blunt lines of Impactor’s frame and the jut of his spike, limned in lamplight.

“Doing something with this would sure make me feel better,” Impactor says. Megatron doesn’t move. He can’t move. Impactor cocks his head, and reaches for Megatron’s hand. He lifts it, and Megatron lets him, lets him wrap Megatron’s digits around the hot, soft length of his spike. He moves it up, and down, slow and rhythmic. He’s not looking at Megatron anymore, staring down at the join of their bodies. After a moment he relaxes his grip, hand falling to the berth. Megatron keeps moving, tiny platelets rubbing against his hand as Impactor’s spike throbs in his grip. 

“Yeahhh,” Impactor groans, half-shutters his optics. He leans back, optics still staring down, shadowed.

“Faster,” he says, and Megatron speeds up until the spike starts to grow slicker, something slick oozing until there’s barely any friction. 

“Fuck,” Impactor says, the whirr of his vents speeding. “ _Fuck,”_ he says again and comes, painting Megatron’s fingers in his spill. It oozes into Megatron’s joints, gummy and warm. He pulls his hand away, drags it along the edge of the berth, smears slick across the dirty fabric. 

“Damn good at that,” Impactor says, vocalizer low and mellow, sated. “Shoulda showed me earlier. Wanna sleep here again tonight?” 

Does he? Megatron's processor churns thick, slow. His frame feels strangely heavy, like his spark’s gonna float right out. He nods, and Impactor grins approvingly and pulls him full onto the berth. Wraps himself around Megatron, plating still damp with condensation. He reeks of the heavy tang of ozone, the _tick tick tick_ of cooling metal echoing in the empty dark. 

“Night Megs,” Impactor mumbles against the side of his helm. Megatron mumbles something back, stares up at the dark of the ceiling. His chest feels hollowed, and his optics burn. He stares at the dark, straining to see the cracks in the ceiling as his chronometer ticks later and later. He floats in the haze, maybe dreaming, maybe asleep. He dims his optics and can’t tell the difference.It’s hot and stifling, and he wants to get up, go down alone to the cool empty depths of the mines. But morning is coming and he can't wake Impactor, so Megatron lies awake and waits.


End file.
